


Sherlock Vampires: The Beginning

by wheel_pen



Series: Sherlock Vampires AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Vampires, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4479317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1941. German bombs disturb an old cemetery, awakening a sleeping vampire. He needs a human to explain this new world to him, and settles on the limping doctor who tries to help him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Vampires: The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

_March 3 rd, 1941_

His sleep was shattered by the burst of a bomb. For a moment he thought it was a dream, but it was too vivid, too real, the noise and smells, the cool air rushing over him, the pressure of the stone on top of him. It didn’t hurt; he shoved the wall fragment aside and sat up, disoriented, hunger burning in his veins, weakness making him sluggish.

“Irene?” he called, looking around. Black smoke and dust filled the air; he didn’t need to breathe but he couldn’t see through it. “Irene!” Sirens were blaring and the night was filled with a sound like thunder. He stumbled down the cracked marble steps, assaulted by the sensations of trodden grass and noxious air, jettisoning his torn coat before he tripped over it.

He did not see Irene. And he did not think the noises were thunder.

Shouts and footsteps approached; he had sense enough to duck behind a headstone. He tried to focus on another nearby, reading the date of death. It did not help him figure out when he’d been awakened. “Oh, just the cemetery,” said a voice from beyond the gate. “Looks like some damage. Wasn’t a dud then.”

“There’s another up the road! Hurry!”

“Er, Watson, could you—“

“I’ll check out the cemetery.” This voice was weary, resigned. The footsteps of the others moved on, but one man stayed behind, crossed through the gate onto the grass.

The man walked with a limp, Sherlock could hear it in his tread. He needed to find Irene, figure out what year it was and what the h—l was going on, and find someplace safe to be at sunrise. But he knew that first, he needed to feed. And the man with the limp was the only person around.

He didn’t have the strength to be graceful, staggering up from behind the headstone. With the moonlight behind him he must have been a ghastly sight, tall, thin, deathly pale, clothes torn and moldering, unable to stand up straight. The man with the limp froze for an instant in surprise—then kept coming towards him.

“Are you alright? It’s okay, I’m a doctor. What are you doing here? Is there anyone else?”

Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and dragged him to the ground; but the man didn’t fight him, just kept telling him it was going to be okay. Sherlock instantly deduced a half-dozen facts about him, even not knowing anything about this time period. He was wearing a uniform, he was young, he didn’t flinch when forced to kneel even though he’d been limping, his heart beat faster with excitement but his hands and voice were steady—he wasn’t afraid. And Sherlock also knew his name, and that he was a doctor in a city under siege.

“Blood,” he blurted through cracked lips.

Watson was feeling him gently, hands pressing across his ribs. “Where? Where were you hurt?”

Sherlock was reluctant to attack someone who was trying to help him. That was the plain truth of it. But there was no one else around, and he was starving—the warm rush of blood under the skin of the man’s neck mesmerized him, tantalized him. His fangs popped without conscious thought and he bit.

“Ow!” Watson exclaimed, grabbing his shoulders. He didn’t push away, though. “Okay, stop it now,” he said in a firm tone, ridiculously calm. “I’m not going to hurt you, so let go.”

The blood was delicious, his first meal in—well, he didn’t know exactly how long. He would need to drink a lot to fully recover his strength. But a few mouthfuls slaked his immediate thirst, enough that he could notice that his prey wasn’t exactly fighting back.

“Really, stop it,” Watson repeated, shaking him a bit, and Sherlock forced himself to retract his fangs and pull away, burning with curiosity more than hunger now. As he sat back, licking the blood from his lips, the young doctor looked… _annoyed_ was the only way to put it. He reached up to touch his neck wound and winced. “Thanks _so_ much,” he commented flatly. “ _Really_ what I needed tonight.” He popped open the metal box he carried, revealing bandages, bottles, and tubes, and quickly tried to staunch the bleeding.

Sherlock had to clear his throat before speaking, it’d been so long since he’d said much of anything. “Drink some of my blood,” he offered, raising his wrist.

“No thanks,” Watson declined. It was difficult treating his own injury that he couldn’t see and his wet fingers slipped. “D—n!”

“My blood will heal you,” Sherlock insisted, still utterly mystified.

“Lovely. Could you hold this here?” Watson directed, pressing Sherlock’s hand against the bandage on his neck. “Firmly. You bit me right in the jugular, I think.”

“Yes, I was trying to.”

“Fantastic. I’ll have to get a dozen shots now,” Watson groused. He wobbled slightly on his knees; the bandage Sherlock was pressing on was soaked through. The sight and smell of the blood made his mouth water; he hated to see it go to waste like that. “Unless I bleed out here first,” Watson added gloomily. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Sherlock decided.

“St. Bart’s is two blocks that way,” Watson indicated. “Help me get there.”

Sherlock did a quick calculation of the amount of blood that was dripping down the man’s uniform sleeve. “You won’t make it,” he assessed. He gnawed on his own wrist, the dry, tissue-thin skin giving way easily. “You need to drink my blood. Just a little—“

“No—“ Sherlock pressed his wrist to Watson’s mouth anyway, his other hand holding the back of his head. Even in his weakened state he was stronger than a human, a human who was oozing life rapidly. With the blood in his mouth it was only a matter of time before he swallowed, and then Sherlock let him go, watching him spit futilely on the ground. “F—k,” Watson swore. “That’s more shots for sure. Hand me the medkit.”

He indicated the box of medical supplies, so Sherlock pushed it closer. Watson discarded the previous bandage and pressed a new one to the site of the wound. “You’ll feel better soon,” Sherlock predicted.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Watson began to answer with dry sarcasm. Then he paused and blinked, swabbed at his injury, and felt the spot with his fingers. Sherlock imagined it was tender, but the skin was unbroken. “What the h—l—Stop that. Honestly.” Watson yanked away the bloody bandage Sherlock had been absently sucking on, then went back to trying to find his wound.

“You gave me your blood willingly,” Sherlock marveled (discarded bandage aside). “Why did you do that?” Had humans really changed so much while he was asleep? He wouldn’t have thought so, given the shelling London was taking.

“Yes, I suppose I should’ve just clubbed you when you bit me,” Watson replied, but the sarcasm was fading from his voice. “I thought you’d just hit your head or something. Bloody war turns people into madmen, I was trying not to overreact. Where did—Can you see the bite at all?” he finally asked, leaning forward and tilting his head to the side.

It was almost as if he was baring his throat to Sherlock on purpose. Rationally Sherlock knew that wasn’t the case, but the pale flesh with its sheen of drying blood tempted him again. Was this human so naïve? No, his tone of voice, the way he held himself suggested he’d seen the darkness of war. But still, he trusted.

“It’s healed,” Sherlock told him simply. “My blood healed you.”

“Okay then,” Watson sighed. “This’ll be one for the boys. Are you injured, then?”

Sherlock blinked in surprise yet again. “Are all humans like you?” he asked, perhaps a bit tactlessly.

Watson looked at him. “I’ll take that as a no,” he decided. “Was there anyone else here with you?”

“Irene,” Sherlock remembered, struggling to stand.

Watson slid under his arm. “Where were you?” he asked professionally, and they hobbled back towards the marble mausoleum. “You were— _in_ here?” he questioned, upon seeing the shattered tomb. “What were you and Irene doing—No, I don’t want to know,” he decided suddenly. “Wait here.” He let Sherlock down on the steps. “I’ll look around.” The doctor was limping again as he poked the fallen stones, Sherlock noticed, which was rather curious—maybe his blood was still too weak to heal all Watson’s injuries.

Thinking of blood brought the need for more of it to the front of his mind again. He’d had only a taste; he needed a full meal or two to be himself again. But not from this particular human. He was far too interesting to devour whole.

Watson limped back over to him, grimacing with each step on the uneven ground but soldiering on nonetheless. “I don’t see any trace of her,” he admitted, with some sympathy. “She may have been thrown clear. I’ll report her as soon as we get to St. Bart’s and they’ll start looking for her.”

If Irene hadn’t been destroyed in the blast—which Sherlock didn’t think she had, he thought he would know, feel it somehow—then she would be fine and could take care of herself. “I need more blood,” he announced.

“Right. Well, there’s plenty of blood at St. Bart’s, so come on,” the doctor insisted, pulling Sherlock to his feet again. “Let’s go, just a couple of blocks.”

“St. Bartholomew’s, the hospital?” Sherlock asked as they struggled back to the gate. “It still exists?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. What year is it?”

“Nineteen forty-one,” Watson answered briskly. “March third, if you’re interested.”

Sherlock had been asleep for nearly two hundred years, then. It didn’t seem like much had changed in the landscape, until they made it to the sidewalk and he nearly toppled them both as some sort of screaming box whizzed by them at high speed. “What was that?!” he demanded.

“Ambulance,” Watson grunted, pulling them back on track. “Look, what kind of drugs are we talking about here? Morphine? Some kind of exotic hallucinogen?”

“What?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“I can’t promise the police won’t be called,” Watson cautioned, “but honestly right now they’ve got better things to do, and I’m not intending to press charges. But you’d better tell us what drugs you’re on, so we can treat you properly.”

“Oh, you mean chemical substances, meant to alter the mind and senses,” Sherlock finally realized. “Unnecessary in my case. Who is king now?”

“Unnecessary,” Watson muttered to himself. “The king,” he replied more loudly, “is George VI.”

“An unbroken line from George II?” The math didn’t seem quite right to him.

“More or less,” Watson claimed. “Did you want me to recite the list?” he guessed dryly.

“Yes, please.”

“G-d, it’s like a bloody primary school nightmare,” he sighed as they hobbled down the street. “Don’t ask me for dates. George II. Then his grandson, George III. Then his son, George IV. Then his brother, William IV. Then his niece, Victoria, that is, granddaughter of George III—“

“Victoria?” Sherlock interrupted. “A queen regnant? In the style of Elizabeth, Gloriana?”

“Well, my grandmother thought she was quite good,” Watson assured him. “Don’t get me off track. Then her son, Edward VII. Then his son, George V. Then, his son Edward VIII, but that didn’t last too long, so now it’s his brother, George VI. Happy now?”

During the doctor’s recitation Sherlock had been cataloging the differences he saw around him—architectural changes in the buildings, strange cords running everywhere, large obelisks and boxes (still and silent, fortunately) obstructing the street and sidewalk. A sidewalk, for that matter. And the smells of human habitation were less organic and earthy, more acrid—though that could be from the bombs being dropped, he supposed.

“I have many questions,” he replied finally.

“Apparently.”

“Who attacks us?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“Germany.”

He frowned. “But is that not the homeland of our king? Does some pretender dispute his claim to the throne?”

“Um, it’s more like a dispute over the whole world, actually,” Watson corrected. “Last chance on the drugs. No? Perhaps a head injury,” he allowed more charitably. “Does your head hurt?”

“I’m very hungry,” Sherlock reminded him. “I must have blood.”

“Well, you’re in luck, here we are,” Watson told him, rounding a corner.

The building they faced was ablaze with light, brighter than any candles Sherlock could imagine—as bright as sunlight. He drew back from it instinctively but then found that it didn’t pain his eyes the way sunlight did. The large entrance teemed with people and more horseless wagons, more _ambulances_ , and the scent of blood from the wounded being carried inside hit him like a wave. His fangs popped uncontrollably and he ducked around the corner into a dark alley, dragging Watson with him.

“I can’t go there,” Sherlock gasped, leaning heavily on the brick wall.

The doctor was gently feeling his skull. “Oh? Why not?”

“I’ll hurt someone,” Sherlock tried to explain. Not that he was _opposed_ to hurting people, but right now his judgment was off. He did have _standards_ about who he hurt. “I’m too hungry—“ And there was another consideration as well, a hope so preposterous he could barely put it into words. “Do you—know of my kind?” he asked, grabbing one of Watson’s hands to stop his examination.

“Hmm, your kind,” Watson repeated dryly. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever _met_ a junkie who hangs out in cemeteries with his girlfriend and is obsessed with blood before, but as a general category of drug-induced psychosis, sure. I know your kind. We’ve actually got a special ward at the hospital for your kind. Sorry, are those fangs?” he added suddenly as they were briefly illuminated by a passing light.

There was a movement farther along in the alley at just the wrong moment, the drunken stagger of a homeless man disturbed from his night’s rest by the bombs. He started shouting rather uncreative threats at the Germans and Sherlock focused his mind on him, turning up a confusing mélange of memories and impulses. The one judgment he took away from it was this was not someone who would be missed. And that was all it took for him to act.

Sherlock pounced on the man, giving full vent to the hunger built up inside him. He tore into the jugular, slamming him against the wall and swallowing down the warm, sweet blood, the alcohol giving it an extra kick. He’d almost forgotten the blinding ecstasy of feeding, feeling the fresh blood enliven his body and overload his senses. It wasn’t until the blood started to slow that he was able to regain control of himself and realized he’d drifted a good ten feet into the air. He glanced down and saw Watson staring up at him, open-mouthed with shock. And then, for the first time since they’d met, he did something sensible.

He ran.

But he didn’t get far. Sherlock discarded the body carelessly and appeared in front of Watson with supernatural speed, pushing him gently but implacably back into the alley. The man looked him up and down, fear and disbelief in his eyes, no doubt noting the changes the meal had brought on. Another meal like that, and Sherlock could pass easily through a crowd of humans, even in those sunlight-bright interiors.

“Wha—just—“ Watson stammered, turning rapidly between Sherlock and the drunk. “Is he dead?” he finally sputtered, indignant.

“Definitely.”

“C----t.”

“I find you very intriguing,” Sherlock told him matter-of-factly. “This is a new world to me, and I want you to be my guide to it. Where are you going?” he asked in annoyance as Watson headed away from him.

“I’m going to check on this man,” he snapped, kneeling with a wince beside the body.

Sherlock frowned. “He’s dead.”

“Yes, well, as a doctor, I really ought to make sure,” Watson shot back. He spent a moment examining the rather large hole in the man’s neck where the last drops of blood had puddled out onto the ground. Sherlock didn’t really think it would take him that long to come to a conclusion, so he supposed he was thinking things over. Finally he turned his head to look at Sherlock, a defeated expression on his face. “Are you going to kill me, too?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock zipped to his side and lifted him to his feet, as easily as he would a child. “No. I want you to help me. Weren’t you listening?” With his strength restored he was impatient to start exploring—there was so much he had to catch up on.

“No, sorry,” Watson responded angrily. “I was too busy thinking about _the man you killed while hovering in the air_ , to think about you needing my help!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s a rather minor point—“

“It seems major to me!”

“—and you’re going to have to get over such things if we’re to live together,” Sherlock went on.

“C----t,” Watson repeated. Then he tried to move around Sherlock towards the end of the alley.

Sherlock blocked him. “ _Now_ what are you doing?”

“Let me go,” Watson ordered.

“No. What’s your given name?”

“P—s off and let me go.”

With his abilities reenergized and the blood they’d shared it wasn’t difficult to pull out the information he wanted on his own. “John. John Hamish Watson.”

The man’s eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

Sherlock laughed a bit, darkly. “How did I move so fast? How did I hover in mid-air? How did I survive the bomb blast? How can I subsist on human blood? There are many things in this world that have been hidden from humans, John, secrets that few are privileged to know—“

“Wait, are you saying you’re a vampire?” John interrupted, and Sherlock’s jaw dropped.

“You _have_ heard of my kind,” he deduced, astonished.

“Maybe _I’m_ the one going mad,” John suggested, more to himself.

“But _where_ have you heard of us?” Sherlock wanted to know. “Do we live openly among humans?” It was hard to imagine, but then so were the ambulances and the sunlight-bright rooms.

“Shell shock,” John was still muttering to himself, limping aimlessly around the alley. “Dr. Brown said it might happen. More vivid than I was expecting, though. Thought it would just be the nightmares…”

“John?” Sherlock prompted in concern. “Perhaps you’d better have some more blood, it should be strong enough to cure your limp now.”

“No, no thanks,” John declined politely. “Very thoughtful of you, though.”

“Well, where have you heard of vampires?” Sherlock persisted. Was this indeed a new world of knowledge and acceptance?

“Oh, books, the cinema, radio,” John rattled off. Sherlock blinked at him, not comprehending the latter two. “Oh, sorry, you’ve been out of touch a while I guess, since—who was it? George II? Um, theatrical performances.”

“About vampires?”

“Yes, they’re popular with children,” John claimed. “Fanciful monsters lurking about in the dark, gives everyone a good scare, then the lights come up and they all go home.”

Understanding dawned. “Oh, you mean it’s _fictional_ ,” Sherlock realized. He was both relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Folklore, tales to frighten naughty children.”

“Yes, precisely,” John agreed.

“Well, that’s good,” Sherlock decided. He wasn’t really ready to rejoin human society yet.

“Yes, it is,” John repeated vacantly. “Well, I think I’ll be off now.”

Sherlock stopped his exit again, not sure if he found this human’s stubbornness fascinating or irritating right now. “John—“

“Look, how about this. I’ll be derelict in my duty, and forget that I ever saw you, or—him,” he proposed, indicating the homeless man’s body. “And I’ll go home and drink quite a lot, and in the morning I’ll tell myself this was all the result of some bad beer.” He sounded like he half-believed that already.

Sherlock decided that patience was called for here, and small steps. Neither was his strong suit. Gently he took the man’s shoulders and stared him straight in the eye. “John, I’m a vampire. I’ve been asleep for nearly two hundred years. I need you to help me understand this new time. I’m not going to hurt you.” He could have just compelled him, and he might still have to. But he would rather have the man’s genuine agreement.

John bit his lip and glanced away, thinking. When he looked back Sherlock knew what his answer was going to be. “Right, well, what the h—l,” he shrugged. It wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic embrace but it would have to do for now. He held up his wrist to look at it and Sherlock saw he had a watch face affixed to it.

“What’s this?” he asked in fascination, examining the band that held it in place.

“Wristwatch.”

“That’s _brilliant_!” So much more convenient than the expensive, fragile pocket watches he remembered.

“Yes, rather. Listen, that bit about vampires being killed by sunlight,” John inquired. “Is it true?”

Sherlock looked up sharply. “Yes. Why?”

“Well, it’s going to be dawn soon,” he pointed out, and Sherlock risked stepping into the street, looking for the horizon. The buildings were in the way, however. “What sort of place should you go to?” John continued. “Are we talking a coffin here, or underground—“

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, finding both ideas distastefully silly. “Just somewhere indoors, with the windows covered. Where we won’t be bothered.”

John gave this some thought. “We could go to my flat, I guess,” he suggested dubiously. “Apartment? Small, self-contained dwelling in a larger building full of the same?” Sherlock nodded finally. “It’s rather horrible and cramped, and there’s a dog next door that’s always barking—“

Sherlock was anxious now that John had mentioned the dawn. “That will do for now. Where is it?”

“Well, normally I take the bus home, end of shift—S—t,” he swore suddenly. “What are we going to do with the body?”

Sherlock almost smiled—John was getting into the proper mindset already. “I could take him back to the cemetery, and put him in the rubble,” he suggested.

“Yes, that might work,” John mused. “Well, the lack of blood on the scene… But a homeless man in the cemetery is quite usual… If I reported it—“ He paused as he realized what he was doing.

“Excellent thinking, John,” Sherlock encouraged quickly. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” He picked up the body and disappeared.

Less than two minutes later he returned to the alley, to see John limping away across the street to St. Bart’s. He had already been spotted by someone at the entrance; Sherlock couldn’t risk snatching him away just yet. Trying to keep himself concealed in the shadows he focused his eyes and ears on the humans.

“Oh, Watson,” someone greeted. “Anything at the cemetery?”

“Yeah, one casualty,” John reported. “Looked like he might be homeless. Got caught under some rubble.”

“Well, won’t have to move him far, will we?” the other man said with dark humor.

John nodded absently and shifted his weight to his good leg uncomfortably. “Martin, could you do me a favor and wrap it up? I’d owe you.”

“Leg bothering you?” Martin guessed.

“Tripped over a bloody headstone,” John claimed. He was proud of his soldier’s skill, Sherlock realized, and using his leg as an excuse hurt his dignity. He understood the importance of the gesture John was making.

“Yeah, sure,” Martin decided after a moment. “Not exactly high priority, is it? You taking off, then?”

“Think I’d better,” John agreed. “Look, tell Saunders it was the flu or something—“

“Yeah, got it, something messy,” Martin agreed. He looked like he was going to have fun making up the story, at John’s expense. But John would apparently prefer that to blaming his leg to this Saunders, Sherlock noted. “You do look a bit queasy anyway. How’re you getting home?”

John had not thought of this part. “Well, I—“

“I’ll make sure he gets home,” Sherlock intoned, suddenly behind him. He fixed Martin in place with his stare and commanded him to think up a sensible ending to the story, since Sherlock wasn’t sure what was reasonable these days.

“Yeah, alright then,” Martin nodded. “See you later.”

“See you,” John replied, looking between him and Sherlock as the other man wandered off. “What did you—“

“Later,” Sherlock promised, glancing around. “Over here.” They walked nonchalantly behind a still ambulance, out of sight. “Now, which way to your… _flat_?”

“Well, it’s sort of—“

“Just think of how to get there.” Sherlock focused on John’s mind and saw the streets and landmarks race by, comparing it with his own mental map of London, outdated though it was. “Okay, I understand.”

John narrowed his eyes at him. “You can read my mind?” he deduced suspiciously.

“Well, it takes concentration,” Sherlock admitted. “I don’t use it for _trivial_ things, like eavesdropping.” He sounded vaguely affronted that John might think this.

The human rolled his eyes. “Of course. Why would I question _your_ morality?”

For a moment Sherlock really didn’t catch his meaning. “Oh, the fellow in the alley—I’ve got to eat, haven’t I? Anyway, I usually choose criminals but I hadn’t eaten in two hundred years, I was a _little_ hungry,” he insisted.

“Hang on,” John said. “You bit _me_ first, but you let go.”

“Let’s talk about this later,” Sherlock deferred, looking around again. The fewer witnesses, the better. “You hold on to me, and I’m going to move very quickly, alright? Now—“ He tried to get John to put his arms around Sherlock’s neck from behind.

“Wait a minute,” John interrupted. “Do I not—taste good or something?” He sounded both embarrassed and slightly hurt, and Sherlock turned back to regard him with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

“No, you taste quite good,” he assured the other man as seriously as he could. “Now _hold on_.” John sighed and did as instructed; it was awkward with Sherlock being taller.

And then suddenly Sherlock took off, one hand clamped to John’s to make sure he didn’t let go. He wasn’t really sure if he was running or flying, but it felt marvelous, after so long spent immobile. Combining his own knowledge with what he’d pulled from John’s mind, and his superior reflexes, he seemed to see everything approaching in slow motion, far enough in advance to dodge around or over it—trees, buildings, vehicles. The few people on the street—mostly in uniforms like John’s—might have felt a sudden breeze pass by them, that ruffled the bushes ahead and sent some litter flying. Of course there were always logistical difficulties, like his fragile old clothes being torn further as he rushed forward, and the occasional bug in his face, but overall—

Then Sherlock whacked hard into something. It broke under him but disturbed his concentration enough that he stumbled and crashed down on something else, which crunched beneath him. Neither impact actually _hurt_ , of course, but they were d—n annoying.

Then he remembered his passenger, who was not quite so robust. “John!”

“Ow,” the other man said weakly from on top of him—at least Sherlock had absorbed most of the impact for him—but the slightly sardonic tinge to the syllable suggested he wasn’t too badly hurt.

Still, Sherlock tried to turn around underneath him gently. “John, are you hurt?” he asked, patting him down much the way John had done to him earlier.

“Why are we lying on top of a smashed car?” John asked, looking around with a wince. He batted Sherlock’s hands away and tried to climb off the mangled vehicle without injuring himself further.

Sherlock hopped off after him, watching him hobble around in a circle with concern. He also saw what he’d initially run into—a tall metal pole, one of many on the street, now lying halfway across it. “What _is_ this?”

“Streetlamp,” John told him. “They’re not lit right now because of the blackout,” he added after a moment, when Sherlock looked at him blankly. “To give the Germans fewer targets.”

Sherlock frowned. “Where are the Germans, that they can see your streetlamps?” he wanted to know, looking up and around in case they were going to pop up on the rooftops.

“Airplanes,” John said, then added, “Flying machines.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in amazement. “Humans have learned to fly?” he asked with delight. “They have conquered the skies? That’s _brilliant_ , Irene was sure they never would—You didn’t _tell_ me about the streetlamps,” he accused suddenly, displeased.

“I didn’t tell you _anything_ ,” John countered, slightly indignant.

“Well, you didn’t picture the street accurately in your mind.”

Clearly John didn’t think this was a reasonable standard to be held to. “Can we get going again?” he insisted, glancing around. “Before someone sees us next to the smashed car and streetlamp.”

“Are you hurt?” Sherlock asked him again, watching to see if he held himself more stiffly. Humans were such fragile things, he needed to remember that. “Here, have some blood—“

A motor purred along a nearby street. “Let’s _go_ ,” John demanded, grabbing his arm, and Sherlock decided to trust his judgment on this point, vanishing again. He didn’t go _quite_ as fast this time, being wary of any other gaps in John’s memory; someone paying very close attention in the dark night _might_ have spotted an equally dark blur go by. He didn’t worry too much about it.

After less than five minutes he stopped in front of a brick apartment building. “Right place?” he asked dubiously.

“Yes,” John assured him, hobbling up the outside steps and letting them in through the front door.

Even to Sherlock’s eyes, unused to modern standards, it looked cheap and ill-maintained, with chips in the brickwork, peeling paint, and a cracked window facing the street. Inside, the hallway was musty and poorly swept, with indeed the sound of a dog barking from above. “I think I can find us a better home than this,” Sherlock predicted tactlessly.

“Oh, could you?” John replied as he limped up the stairs, in the light tone Sherlock was quickly recognizing as sarcasm. “That’d be lovely. Something with a lift, perhaps.”

“Lift?”

“Machine that raises you from floor to floor, so you don’t have to climb _bloody_ stairs all the time,” John told him, the last words apparently coinciding with a painful twinge in his leg.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John from behind and zipped them both to John’s apartment door. “Lift,” he announced, pleased with himself.

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” John conceded, pushing Sherlock’s arm away as he dug out his keys. The dog yapped incessantly now, from the unit next door. “I told you about the dog?” John asked, stepping across the threshold. “Come on in, it’s not much but—“

“John!” Sherlock admonished, freezing the other man in his tracks in the tiny living room. “You’ve got to be careful about who you invite into your house! Vampires can’t enter unless you invite them!”

“Okay, could you shut the door and lower your voice, please?” John requested. “The walls are really thin.”

Sherlock tried to follow his instructions but was stymied by the door’s locking system. “Fascinating,” he whispered to John as the other man worked it for him. Their heads were close, bent over the doorknob, and Sherlock inhaled his scent, very like newly-cropped grass and fresh soap. This would be important if he ever had cause to track his human by smell.

John pulled away uncomfortably. “Do you, um, want some tea?” he offered, heading for the small kitchen.

Sherlock zipped right up behind him so he could continue speaking softly. “No. I want to make sure the flat is sealed from sunlight, then I want to feed you some more blood for your injuries.”

“Well, _I_ want some tea then,” John decided, filling the kettle. “And you don’t have to _whisper_ ,” he corrected. “Just don’t go about shouting ‘vampire’ and such, alright?”

“Oh. Alright.”

He still didn’t move away very far, trailing John closely as he shut the curtains in the living room and bedroom. “I’m not sure it’s really _sealed_ ,” John admitted of the thin fabric. Sherlock examined it doubtfully. “Well, we could put some towels over them for another layer, I guess,” John suggested. “There’s some in the loo—oh, you don’t know what a loo is, probably.” He opened the door to his small bathroom. “Indoor bathing and, er, defecatory area.”

“Indoors? How marvelous!” Sherlock declared. “It doesn’t smell? To humans, I mean,” he amended, as naturally his enhanced senses could still detect evidence of the room’s purpose. It was much less malodorous than the facilities he was familiar with, though. “And so much more private than having servants carry the water in.”

“Yes, no servants here,” John commented dryly, as he draped towels over the curtain rods. Sherlock poked gingerly at the various faucets and handles in the bathroom, until the chair-like object (whose purpose was obvious) suddenly let out a great gurgling roar and the water began draining from the bowl in a raging swirl.

“Have I broken it?” he wanted to know, once he’d come down from the ceiling (literally).

John tested the handle. “No, it’s fine, that’s what it does,” he assured the other man, gazing idly at the shoeprints on his ceiling tiles. “Do vampires, er, defecate?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, his tone indicating how profoundly glad of that he was. “We _do_ enjoy bathing, though,” he hinted, turning towards the bathtub. He could use a thorough washing after spending almost two centuries in a dusty tomb.

“That’s a good thing to enjoy,” John agreed mildly. “But there’s only enough hot water for ten minutes, so…” Sherlock looked at him without comprehension. “The water runs out of here or here,” John elaborated, pointing to the bathtub faucet and the showerhead, “and for the first ten minutes it will run hot if you like, and then it turns ice-cold.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “And you have no servants to heat water on the stove for you and bring it in,” he realized soberly. “That’s unfortunate, hot baths are very relaxing.”

“Well, that’s just this building. I mean, lots of buildings, right now,” John went on, going back to the kitchen to fetch the heated kettle. “But some people have lots of hot water, or rather, lots of fuel to heat it with. Did you want some tea?” he asked again, as Sherlock inspected the kitchen sink, turning the water on and off quickly.

“Do people no longer drink coffee?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“They do, but I haven’t got any,” John replied. “Just tea. Do vampires eat or drink anything but blood?”

“We _can_ , but there’s little point to it,” Sherlock told him, sniffing at the cup of tea he was handed. “It all tastes very bland and dull. Although coffee was nice for being hot, and it was very invigorating.”

“Tea has caffeine in it, too,” John assured him, offering him a seat at his small table. “That’s the invigorating chemical in both tea and coffee.”

“John, you’re so wonderful at explaining things,” Sherlock declared. He sipped the tea, made a slight grimace, let the component flavors settle out, and decided it might be acceptable to continue drinking, though personally he still preferred coffee. “You’re perfect for guiding me in this new time. Only don’t do that with your spoon, please,” he added, a bit sharply, and John’s hand froze where he’d been stirring the spoon through his tea, occasionally clanking it against the cup. “Vampires have very sensitive hearing. _All_ our senses are more powerful than those of humans, in fact.”

“Except taste,” John mentioned, carefully laying the spoon on his saucer.

“Excuse me?”

“You just said nothing had a strong taste, except for blood,” John pointed out. “Didn’t you?”

Sherlock blinked at him for a long moment, until John started to squirm a bit. “How insightful,” he praised, impressed. “Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it that way before. Blood is just so delicious and complex and distinctive,” he described, feeling his fangs itch a bit as he thought about it. “I suppose it’s more that other food holds no interest for us in comparison.”

John grimaced slightly. “Mmm, yes. So vampires consume food—blood—but they don’t, er, excrete waste products at all? That’s a rather unusual biological system.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “Well, what do you want, John? It’s magic.”

“I’m a doctor, I’m just curious about these things,” John protested.

“No, it’s lovely,” Sherlock reversed quickly, reminding himself that he needed to reassure his human. “I’m pleased you’re so curious. You’ll get so much more out of our life together. We can travel and read and explore art and culture—“

“Magically you have lots of money and don’t have to worry about a job?” John predicted dryly.

“Well, it’s not magic, it’s compound interest,” Sherlock tried to tell him, and he nodded along. “Assuming the world economy still works more or less the same way—is gold still considered valuable?”

“Oh yes.”

“We’ll be fine, then.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the human. “You’re quite calm about this now,” he observed suspiciously.

“Oh. Sorry. Tired,” John claimed, yawning. “Long night.”

“Well, here, have some blood,” Sherlock insisted, scooting closer. “We’re going to get rid of that limp.”

“Couldn’t I have it in a cup or something?” John protested mildly, backing away from the offered wrist.

“Fresh from the source is the best,” Sherlock assured him, scratching himself with his nails to draw blood. “Come on, don’t waste it.”

Gingerly, with much wrinkling of his nose and curling of his lip, John let Sherlock press his wrist against his mouth and forced himself to swallow. “Okay, that’s enough, thanks,” he said, pushing Sherlock’s arm away.

“That’s hardly any at all,” Sherlock complained, even as his wrist healed over before John’s astonished eyes.

“Well, it just tastes like blood to me.” He said this like it was a bad thing.

“Look, I’m going to be putting you on this special diet,” Sherlock tried to tell him. “I’ve done it before, it not only heals humans but extends their lifespan—What’s wrong?” John seemed slightly agitated, feeling his stomach through his shirt and then finally untucking his uniform to lift the top up and stare at his skin. Sherlock didn’t mind the view, but he’d had a more reserved impression of the other man. “John?”

“I was sure I was going to have bruises,” John replied distractedly, probing at his ribs. “From when we hit that—“

“I’m terribly sorry about that,” Sherlock told him quickly. “Are you injured? You should have told me earlier! How can I protect you if—“

He could see John wasn’t really listening to him. “—an odd tingling sensation, warmth, and then the pain went away—“

“Yes, that’s the point!” Sherlock persisted. “More would be better, and if we could work up to eight ounces a day—“

Now John was unbuttoning his shirt and tugging the neck of his undershirt aside. When he uncovered a small puckered circle of flesh on his right shoulder he sighed, a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. “Still there,” he murmured to himself. “Remember it as bigger, though.”

“John? What is that?” Sherlock inquired, trying to regain his attention.

John looked up as though just remembering he was there. Sherlock was used to having a _little_ more presence than that, but then again this seemed like a very unusual human. Or maybe _all_ humans had become unusual, compared to those he recalled.

“This is my scar, where I was shot. In battle, in France?” John explained. “That’s why I was sent home.”

“Are the French our enemies, too?” He wouldn’t be surprised.

“No, actually, they’re allies, but Germany invaded and is occupying them.”

“Typical French,” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully. “Anyway, you can’t expect a scar like that to completely heal up on just the little bit of blood you drank. It will go away soon, though,” he promised, adding delicately, “Was that the same battle where you hurt your leg?”

“Um, actually, I _didn’t_ hurt my leg,” John confessed. He held his now-empty teacup with both hands and stared into it thoughtfully. “I was shot in the shoulder, and it’s my _leg_ that hurts.” His tone indicated he understood this wasn’t normal. “My psychiatrist says it’s all in my head.”

“What?” Sherlock asked blankly.

“It’s like a doctor for your mind.”

“Oh.” Sherlock did not fully understand this concept—he would’ve expected humans to get stronger over time, not develop _more_ things they needed doctors for—but it seemed to trouble John. “I’m not really sure how vampire blood is going to affect that,” he admitted. “We’ll have to experiment.”

“Oh, certainly,” John sighed. He looked up suddenly. “D’you mind if I just go to bed now?” he asked. “I’m really tired, and—“

“No, by all means,” Sherlock allowed quickly. He stood and helpfully gathered up the tea things, placing them in the sink for John. “I’m sorry, I’ve just forgotten what it’s like, taking care of a human,” he explained, pulling John’s chair back as he stood. “You need rest. And food! Have you eaten?” He looked around the kitchen for human food he recognized. “You should have some bread— _My G-d, is it already sliced?!_ ” he exclaimed, loudly enough that John shushed him. “That is _brilliant_! What inspired mind came up with the idea of standardizing bread slices?!”

“I think it was the Earl of Sandwich,” John deadpanned. “I’m not very hungry,” he added, as Sherlock played with the packaging on the bread and spilled slices all over the counter. “Um, could you—“ With lightning speed and a bit of guilt Sherlock packed them all back in, not sure they were entirely undamaged. “Thanks. So, you said _no_ to the coffin, or…?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Do you have a coffin around?” he asked curiously.

“No.”

Well, that was good, humans had gotten far too morbid if they kept spare coffins around the house. “I’m not going to sleep anyway,” Sherlock proclaimed. “There’s far too much to do, to learn! Do you realize that almost every single thing in your flat is new to me?” he enthused. “For example—what’s this?” He pointed to a large, white metal cabinet in the kitchen.

“Ice box. Could you _not_ make a mess while I’m asleep, please?” John requested untrustingly.

“Ice--box,” Sherlock repeated stiltedly, laying his hand on the metal door. It didn’t feel particularly cool. He tugged experimentally on the door and it opened, revealing—

“Oh G-d,” John sighed.

The weariness in his tone dampened Sherlock’s enthusiasm considerably, even though it was a _cold box containing perishable food and a light_! As a vampire one learned patience. Theoretically, anyway. He shut the ice box door quickly. “I’ll examine it later, while you sleep,” he proposed. “Very quietly and neatly. What sort of reading material have you?” he asked abruptly. “You do… read, don’t you?”

John looked slightly affronted. “Of course I read.”

Sherlock thought as much, given his medical background. “Just checking. It wasn’t very common last I knew.”

John sighed apologetically. “Right. Um, let’s see what I’ve got.” He trudged around the flat with Sherlock at his heels, handing him books and papers. “Couple of medical textbooks, some newspapers, um, some Westerns—those are fiction—“ He stared around the room as though expecting more books to leap out at him.

Sherlock was frankly disappointed. He read very quickly and had perfect recall, so what was he going to do with himself while trapped in this flat as his human slept? “Is reading material difficult to obtain now?” he asked, generously.

“Not really, I just—“ John had apparently never thought about it before. “I don’t have a lot of— _things_.”

He looked slightly lost as he said this and Sherlock dumped the books and newspapers onto the couch, daring to put his arm around John’s shoulder in a friendly way. “That’s alright, don’t worry about it, John,” he assured him. “I’ll do a lot of _thinking_ today, and come nightfall, we’ll start making plans for our future.” He hoped his tone conveyed that these plans would be very grand indeed.

“Well, that would be helpful,” John agreed, in that somewhat dismissive way of his. Sherlock chose not to take offense. He gently shrugged Sherlock away. “Um, I listen to the wireless a lot, you might like that,” he redirected, approaching a wooden box on a table in the living room. “It’s radio waves,” he explained, twisting the knobs on it to show Sherlock how it worked. To Sherlock’s astonishment, instrumental music was emitted by the box, even when he picked it up and turned it over. “Stop,” John warned, and he set it back down carefully. “It’s invisible waves that carry sound through the air. Invisible,” he emphasized when Sherlock looked around the room for them. “There’s news, music, fictional dramas, adverts. Don’t turn it up too loud, alright?”

“You’re a very conscientious neighbor, John,” Sherlock assured him. If a bit persnickety. Still, he _had_ allowed a strange vampire to drink from him, and to stay in his home. “You have a generous spirit,” Sherlock was moved to proclaim.

“Thanks.” John looked around the room for a moment. “Anything else you need?”

“No. Please, feel free to retire.” He looked like he was about to collapse.

John nodded. “Right. Goodnight. Er, morning.” He limped off towards the bedroom and Sherlock sat down on the floor before the wireless, willing the instrument to give up its secrets to him. “Um—“ He turned instantly when he heard John speak again. “Sorry, bit stupid, but—don’t think I caught your name.”

“Oh, my apologies,” Sherlock said quickly, hopping back up. “Sherlock Holmes.” Careless of him, but then again, he wasn’t sure when would have been a better point for introductions.

“Ah,” John replied. “Sherlock the vampire. Got it.” He shut the bedroom door firmly.

**

John awoke groggily, the bedroom dimmer than he thought it should be. He squinted at the time on his bedside clock, then gazed lazily at his windows, wondering dispiritingly if it was going to rain again today. Then he realized it was darker than it should be in the bedroom because there were towels draped over the curtain rods.

So, _that_ had really happened, then.

Heaving a sigh John forced himself out of bed. What had he told Martin last night, that he had the flu? No, first that he’d tripped over a stone in the cemetery. Well, both could be true; his leg throbbed no less than usual, and the bizarre things he remembered about last night certainly had the air of a fever dream. He didn’t feel hungover, anyway.

He splashed some water on his face and dressed, not sure what he was going to do with himself until his shift started—he’d gone to bed too early after the last shift, though maybe he needed the extra sleep, given his strange dreams. He spent a lot of his days like this, it seemed, shuffling aimlessly around his flat, waiting for work to start. Not that work was always so thrilling, but it was something to do, something worthwhile that he could contribute—

“Good morning, John.”

The voice didn’t startle him, because he realized he’d been staring at the man in his living room for a long moment already, silently, utter confusion turning his brain upside down. “What are you doing here?” he finally choked out.

The man frowned. “John, don’t you remember me? It’s Sherlock. We met last night.”

If they’d met last night then more of John’s hallucination was true than he wanted it to be. “No, no. Get out of my flat!”

Sherlock was distressed at this idea. “John, I can’t leave! It’s daylight, I can’t go out in the sun—“

Insane vampire c—p that didn’t die with the sunrise. “This is _not_ happening!” John insisted, as though that had ever made a difference. “Just get out!”

Sherlock started to walk towards him. “John, calm down, you’re disoriented. Have you eaten? Have some blood.”

G-d, it couldn’t even be _original_ , had to be a rehash of every supernatural thriller he’d ever heard on the wireless. “Fine, if you won’t leave, _I_ will,” he declared. The walls were closing in on him anyway, and there was nothing worth stealing. “When I get back, you better not be here!” He slammed the door behind himself and heard the dog next door start to bark and a baby down the hall start to cry, and he hobbled down the stairs before anyone could stick their heads out and blame him.

John didn’t know where to go. He didn’t usually _go_ places, except work and the greengrocer’s. And occasionally the bar for a pint or two, but it was too early for that; and as much as it seemed like a fine short-term solution, he knew that long-term, whatever was short-circuiting in his brain would not be helped by alcohol.

He _was_ hungry; he stopped at a little café for overpriced tea and biscuits and thoroughly depressed the waitress before slinking out. He sat in the park for a while. That was boring and uncomfortable; why did people sit in parks? He thought about contacting his psychiatrist, but not for very long. It might have been prudent but was vastly unappealing.

He bought a newspaper but didn’t read it; the headlines were—naturally when your city was being shelled nightly—doom and gloom. He thought about spending some cash on an escapist novel, but the shop was farther than he wanted to walk, and anyway that reminded him strongly of the Westerns he’d pointed out to the vampire Sherlock. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to read them again without experiencing the unsettling feeling that had dogged him all day—like he’d done something horribly wrong and was about to be found out any moment.

John could stand it no longer—literally—and finally limped home, cursing his leg under his breath all the way up the stairs. Tentatively he pushed open his front door—unlocked, but he’d left it that way, and everything seemed fine. Wireless off, books in a neat pile, teacups in the rack next to the sink. Bed unmade like he’d left it. Good. Maybe things were finally getting back to normal now.

There was a knock on his door. He opened it. Then he tried to close it again.

Sherlock stopped it with his hand. “Please, John, can I come in?” he asked plaintively.

Did he have power in this situation or not? “No,” John replied abruptly, trying to push the door shut.

Sherlock easily overcame that and zipped into the living room. “Thought you couldn’t enter without permission,” John grumbled.

“You already _gave_ me permission,” Sherlock pointed out. “It only takes once.”

“And I suppose there’s no way to take it back.”

“No.”

John shut the door and leaned back against it with a heavy sigh. “Look, I really don’t know what’s going on here, but can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I don’t know what’s going on here, either, John,” Sherlock insisted crossly. “Why are you so upset with me? Have I hurt or frightened you somehow?”

John barked out a disbelieving laugh. “Total stranger in my living room when I wake up, wants to know if he’s frightened me—“

“I’m _not_ a total stranger,” Sherlock corrected. “We met last night at the cemetery. You gave me your blood willingly. You invited me into your home!” He sounded rather distressed at this point and John tried to shush him.

“Alright, alright. Look, I don’t really understand what happened last night,” John admitted. “Maybe I’m sick or seeing things or something. But I think it would be better—for you—if you just left now. Er, sorry for the inconvenience.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “John, I can’t _leave_ , it’s still daylight,” he said once again, more slowly, because John obviously didn’t get it.

“Well where’ve you _been_?” John asked peevishly.

“You told me not to be here when you got back,” Sherlock reminded him, “but I couldn’t actually leave the building. So I’ve been visiting with your neighbors.”

“My neighbors?” John repeated with some alarm. He imagined this madman inflicting himself on them. “You didn’t _eat_ any of my neighbors, did you?” he checked.

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock responded, as though the idea was insulting to him. Then his expression changed. “Well, I nibbled a bit on a few,” he admitted.

“Oh G-d.”

“They’re all perfectly fine!” he claimed. “I’m _hungry_ , John. I hadn’t eaten for two hundred years and I’ve only had one good meal!”

This failed to elicit much sympathy in John. “Well poor you. You _promise_ you didn’t hurt anybody?” It wasn’t that he cared so deeply about his neighbors—he hadn’t even lived there that long—but it just seemed wrong to let a monster in their midst unchecked, to sully his home that way. Not very, well, neighborly.

“I didn’t hurt anybody,” Sherlock swore solemnly. “Not even that awful man in 3B. Mr. Jessup?”

John sighed. “Well, he _is_ an awful man,” he was forced to agree.

“He just kept ranting about the Jews and the Negroes causing the war,” Sherlock went on, clearly mystified. “I don’t normally think of Jews as being very militaristic, they’re more into finance and scholarship, aren’t they? And the Negroes in Africa were often said to be fierce warriors, but I can’t figure out how they would’ve gotten to Germany. Say, has there been some kind of slave revolt in the American colonies?” he asked. “I’ve been reading some very curious things in the newspaper. Oh good, you’ve got today’s.”

John gave up the paper easily, not sure how to respond to the rest of the speech. “I thought you couldn’t go into someone’s home unless they invited you,” he repeated suspiciously.

“I can’t, but everyone invited me,” Sherlock explained, flipping quickly through the paper. He seemed to merely scan each page rather than read it, and when he was done he chucked the whole pile messily aside. “One thing that hasn’t changed, city dwellers have lost much of the folk tradition of the countryside,” he judged. “They always think they’re too sophisticated for those old superstitions and they forget the need to guard against supernatural threats.”

“Yes, sadly, they don’t teach Vampire Lore 101 at schools anymore,” John deadpanned.

Sherlock ignored the joke. “But I’ve learned a great deal talking to your neighbors, John,” he went on. “I was right, you _are_ a unique human, most people are incredibly dull.”

“I’m dull,” John tried to insist.

“Nonsense. You have many fine qualities, like bravery, compassion, integrity, intelligence,” Sherlock rattled off happily. “You’re like a knight of old, a warrior-poet.”

“I’m not a poet,” John contradicted, but slowly. These sentiments, he was more and more certain, could not have come from his own brain. Never would he have given himself compliments like _that_.

“You’re colorful and complex,” Sherlock continued blithely. “Most people here are still very simple. And do you know what else, John? People are _sad_. They feel isolated from each other and their larger community.” He sounded upset by this, which made John want to roll his eyes at the hypocrisy. Considering this fellow’s _modus operandi_ was to isolate a human and kill them for food.

“They’ve lost contact with the land, with their families and traditions. Why should that be, John? This is a phenomenal age! Transportation that can get you anywhere in the country in just a few hours, and instantaneous long-distance communication as well! Free education for both sexes from all classes! Potable running water in every home! The power of the sun inside your own home at the flick of a switch! Cheap—“

“Don’t forget sliced bread,” John interrupted wearily.

“I was getting there.”

“Glad you like our little world,” he went on sarcastically. “Now can we please discuss—“ Sherlock held up his hand suddenly as though listening to something. Then he pointed at the door. A moment later there was a knock.

“Mrs. Malone,” Sherlock whispered to him.

John sighed. That was the wife across the hall, with her brood of small children and the husband who worked in the munitions factory. They often had cause to interact as they were both home during the day. And she was often bored.

He gestured to Sherlock that he should keep quiet, which the vampire seemed to promise he would do. Then John went to the door and opened it a few inches. “Ah, Mrs. Malone,” he greeted, as though he hadn’t known she would be there. He cleared his throat, intent on appearing fully normal. “How are you today?”

“Oh, I’m alright, Doctor,” she replied in a way that suggested she _wasn’t_ alright at all. She found it very convenient, having a doctor across the hall.

“Oh?” No getting out of _this_ one quickly, then; though she must have found it odd that he didn’t open the door wider.

“Well, my back’s been aching again,” she began leadingly, “and we’ve used our aspirin ration, so—“

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. “Ah, not a problem, I’ve got some extra,” he assured her. Because he really wasn’t supposed to take anything for his leg, being not a _real_ injury. John started to move away from the door, then wondered if he ought to close it entirely—leaving her standing out in the hall while he fetched the pills. That would be very odd indeed. “Um—would you mind if I brought it ‘round in five minutes or so?” he asked, trying for innocence.

“No, that’d be alright, Doctor,” Mrs. Malone agreed, with only slight surprise.

“Alright. Just a couple of minutes,” John promised, awkwardly starting to shut the door.

“Say, did your friend find you?” the woman asked suddenly, and John froze, then slowly opened the door a bit more.

“Sorry, what?”

“Your friend, tall chap, curly hair,” Mrs. Malone described. “He came by for some tea this morning, said he was waiting for you to come home.” John’s blank look must have seemed very slow to her; but he was too busy thinking, _Someone else saw him_. Which truly meant Sherlock wasn’t just a figment of John’s overstressed imagination.

“Oh, yes,” John finally responded dully.

“Charming fellow,” Mrs. Malone judged. “Gave him an old suit of Frank’s, one he’s grown out of, you know,” she added, patting her midsection to indicate the direction Frank’s growth had taken. “Always did fancy tall men.”

“You gave him—“ Fatally, John turned to look at Sherlock, having failed to notice the very normal suit he was wearing, as opposed to what he remembered from the night before, which was more like a tattered costume from a fancy dress ball.

It was hard to imagine Frank Malone wearing it half as well. The cocky little shrug Sherlock gave didn’t help matters.

“Oh, is that him?” John’s look had been all the invitation Mrs. Malone needed to nudge the door open a bit more, wide enough to reveal Sherlock even though he had, admittedly, behaved himself and not drawn her attention. No, that was strictly John’s fault. “Hello again. My, that suits you well, doesn’t it?”

John was tempted to ask if she could _really_ see him, but realized that would be weird. “I’ll just get you that aspirin,” he declared, leaving the door open as he went for the bathroom.

“And how did your baking turn out, Mrs. Malone?” he heard Sherlock asking her cordially. “That gas oven is _simply_ amazing!”

“Aren’t you a funny one!” she replied with a laugh. “Must be very posh not to have seen a stove before. Well, my bread turned out just fine, thank you. I’d put my bread up against anything your professional cook turned out.”

John came rushing back out with the aspirin before Sherlock could reply. “Here you go, take the whole bottle,” he insisted. “Hope your back—What’s that?” He interrupted his own rush to be rid of her when he caught sight of a suspicious bandage on her arm.

“Oh, this?” She sounded a bit disgusted with herself. “Well, I _did_ manage to burn myself while getting the bread from the oven. Stung like the dickens but I put some cream on it, should be fine, don’t you think?”

John stole another glance at Sherlock, who looked aggressively innocent. “Yes, I suppose so,” he agreed reluctantly. “Well, goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Doctor. Thanks ever so much. And nice to see you again,” she added to Sherlock.

“Mrs. Malone.”

John shut the door, careful not to slam it like he wanted to, then locked it. Then he slowly turned around to face Sherlock, who waited with admirable patience.

“So… Really a vampire, then?” he checked finally.

In response Sherlock rose slowly into the air several feet. John was fairly certain he hadn’t installed any invisible wires in the ceiling of his flat lately.

“I need to sit down,” John decided with a heavy sigh.

In a flash he was settled on the couch with Sherlock next to him. _Right_ next to him, with his arm around John’s shoulders. “You need to eat as well,” Sherlock judged. “Food, blood, rest, a bath,” he added delicately. “Then we’ll see about improving this place, until we can find a better one.”

John felt his control of his own life slipping away; but that was a familiar sensation. How many surreal, horrific situations had he ended up in as an Army doctor, because he went where he was told to by someone on high? Not that he was comparing this pushy vampire to his commanding officer. He hadn’t lost _that_ much of his own will. But when he thought about protesting that he already had a life and it didn’t need alteration, it sounded hollow even inside his own head.

“Well, I _could_ use something to eat,” he allowed, and Sherlock grinned at him, brief but overwhelming.

“I’ll make you something!” he offered, zipping into the kitchen.

“Don’t,” John countered, imagining the building burning down as a result. “Just—bring me some bread and butter, please. That would be lovely.”

This was delivered in a flash and then Sherlock was back in the kitchen, poking and shuffling. “I’ll make you some tea,” he announced. “I know how, I watched several people do it. Very peculiar, always pushing tea on people.”

“We call that hospitality,” John pointed out. “You bit Mrs. Malone, didn’t you?” he went on. “And made her think it was a burn somehow. And last night, with Martin—you did something to him as well.”

The kettle on, Sherlock settled down next to John again, watching him eat with unnerving intensity. “Yes, vampires can compel humans to do or think things,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It’s an art, to do it properly, make the story sensible. And you have to be well-fed. Which I could do with more of. Food, I mean.”

“Are you going to bite me again?” John asked. His hand automatically went to the spot on his neck that had been wounded last night—the smoothness of the skin there seemed unreal somehow.

“I think that would be counterproductive at this point,” Sherlock assessed, which didn’t sound entirely complimentary. “We’ll go out after dark and find me another full meal.” Abruptly he zipped away to deal with the tea kettle, even though John hadn’t heard it whistle.

“What’s this ‘we’ business?” John contradicted. “ _I_ don’t want to watch you kill anyone. In fact I can’t actually endorse you killing anyone at all.” His medical ethics hadn’t actually mentioned supernatural situations, but he didn’t think it was a good habit to get into.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock sighed, as though he really should be quicker on the uptake. He brought him some tea, which was a bit strong if otherwise good. “I’ve told you, I generally try to kill only _bad_ people. And anyway I have to eat. Cows and sheep probably see _all_ humans as murderers, you know.”

“And we’re just cows and sheep to _you_ ,” John surmised dryly.

“Generally an apt description,” Sherlock agreed breezily. “ _Some_ humans are more special, of course.”

Obviously he meant John, who tried to discreetly scoot away and angle himself so Sherlock couldn’t get too close. “How many people are we talking about here?” he wanted to know. “That you would kill.”

“Oh, about one a week, at my normal level of activity,” Sherlock estimated. “Hardly any at all, in a city like this.”

“That’s over fifty a year!”

“The world is full of bad people, John,” Sherlock shrugged, as though he was doing all the rest of them a favor. “ _You_ don’t even judge the morality of cows and sheep first.” He sounded completely untroubled by this, as if he was merely humoring John by bothering to answer. John supposed he’d had a long time to rationalize things to himself.

“Anyway, you can’t go out after dark unless you’ve got special clearance,” John informed him. “There’s a sunset curfew. Because of the Blitz?”

Sherlock frowned. “That’s inconvenient.”

“Yes.”

“Not that it would really bother me for feeding,” Sherlock went on, “as I have a great deal of experience evading the night watch, and I would naturally be drawn to out-of-the-way areas where the other people breaking curfew would be.”

“Curfew-breaking is not, in itself, an eatable offense, is it?” John checked. In the course of his duties he’d encountered a number of people who were breaking curfew, and most were just foolish or desperate.

Sherlock gave him a look. “No, don’t be silly, John.”

“Mustn’t be _that_.”

“Murderers and thieves and so forth, John,” Sherlock specified, his tone suggesting the human was being deliberately obtuse. “Violent types are the best, very vigorous blood. But I’ve also had occasion to put an end to the exploitive activities of merciless landlords and financiers who take advantage of people’s poverty.”

He sounded like he really wanted John to ask him for further details, but John refused. “How noble,” he responded dismissively. “I’m sure the good sheep were very grateful.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t require their gratitude. Although,” he added with a slightly roguish look, “sometimes certain humans are appealing enough to tempt me with their… appreciation.” He sighed fondly as though remembering specific incidents, which he _also_ wouldn’t mind telling John about.

John thought about making another sheep joke at this point but didn’t want to have to explain it if Sherlock didn’t get it. Instead he went back to an earlier topic. “Did you compel me?” he wanted to know. “Last night. At some point?” That would explain how he ended up in this mess.

“I never did,” Sherlock swore, solemnly. “That’s what’s so remarkable about you, John! It’s like you were drawn to me, all on your own.” Now John rolled _his_ eyes. “But this sunset curfew is tiresome,” he went on, frowning. “It means you’ll have to go out during the day, alone, to conduct our business. Of course, _I_ will keep you safe at night, from both the criminal classes and the authorities.”

“I work nights,” John reminded him. “My shift starts at 9pm and ends at 5am.” That was where the openings had been when he joined the hospital; and it wasn’t like he had a family to get home to.

Sherlock waved this off. “You don’t need to _work_ anymore, John!” he insisted. “What time is it? I’ll send you to the bank. It was called Macadam and Sons, I wonder if it’s still—“

John set his food down decisively, a sudden fury spiking through him. Sherlock seemed to notice it and abruptly fell silent. “I have to work,” he stated tensely. “There’s a war on. My country is under attack. I can’t—I can’t be a soldier anymore but I can be a doctor, and they need doctors.” This was the one thing he clung to, the one part of his life he could not give up, no matter what crazy promises he was made. That was the whole point of medical school _and_ boot camp—to serve his country, to help people. He couldn’t just sit idle when he had that ability still, especially not now.

He expected Sherlock to find that reasoning stupid. But when he looked up finally he saw the other man smiling faintly. “Integrity, compassion, bravery,” he repeated approvingly, then added tartly, “I may have to dock you on intelligence, though.” Sherlock shrugged. “Fine, you may continue your human servitude for the time being.”

“Why thank you,” John replied dryly, clearing his throat after the unusual burst of emotion. He started to idly play with his teacup and saucer, then stopped himself and glanced up at Sherlock, who was grimacing.

“Humans fidget,” the vampire noted, as though reminding himself of this unpleasant but unavoidable fact.

“Er, yes. Sorry.”

Sherlock tried to put the irritation behind him. “Well, you’ve eaten. Now, you should have some more blood.”

John immediately put his hand up. “Look, I’m not really into this whole drinking blood thing,” he said. “I appreciated it when it healed my injuries—which were all your fault anyway,” he couldn’t help adding. “But I don’t think it’s really an everyday thing, is it?”

He could see this was the wrong response. “Of _course_ it’s an everyday thing, John!” Sherlock refuted. “It’s _exactly_ an everyday thing! You’re hardly my first human companion. I know best how to make it work.” John rolled his eyes at the casual presumption. “We start you on a small amount of blood every day and gradually increase it to eight ounces. That seems a viable amount. This will buffer you against the ravages of illness and injury, and allow you to remain youthful long past your natural endpoint.”

“Natural endpoint. You mean I’ll never die?” John interpreted. It was a bit dodgy at times.

“I don’t know about _never_ ,” Sherlock cautioned. “The longest I’ve ever kept a human going was one-hundred-seventeen years. Usually I know within a few decades if I want to turn them into a vampire for all time, or let them go.”

“Oh really.” John had not stopped to consider how this adventure might end, being wholly out of his experience. “Do you turn many into vampires?”

“No.”

“And what happens when you let them go?”

This topic seemed to depress Sherlock. “Decay sets in rapidly without the daily infusion of vampire blood,” he described, somewhat subdued. John started to feel sorry for him, then realized he was probably thinking of it like humans thought of a dying pet dog. Sad, of course, but— _pet dog_. “They usually fall prey to some illness or other within a few years.”

That wasn’t as bad as what John had been expecting, frankly. “You don’t, er, dispatch them yourself?” As one would an ill pet, or lame sheep.

“Counterproductive,” Sherlock declared, focusing on John again. “Dying with vampire blood in one’s system is the first step to _becoming_ a vampire.”

“Hang on,” John stopped him. “Are you saying if I got hit by a bomb on my way to work tonight, I’d turn into a vampire?”

“Really, John, that’s so distressing and morbid,” Sherlock chastised. “Normally I’m very careful with my humans, to make sure that sort of accident doesn’t befall them. Anyway, the next step is you have to drink some human blood, _then_ you’re fully a vampire. It’s not instantaneous. Now if we can please go back to your dietary regimen?” he asked, as though John had deliberately derailed them for something trivial. “You’ll have to eat special foods that don’t inhibit the absorption of the blood. You’ll have to eat a lot of _fruits_ and _vegetables_ —fresh, not always cooked. I know that will be strange at first. Also _milk_ —don’t worry, it’s not _really_ poisonous, that’s just superstition. But I’m afraid venison and eel are right out,” he ordered.

He looked as though he expected resistance on this score, but John merely shrugged. “That part doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Well, alright then. Let’s begin, shall we?” Sherlock disappeared briefly and returned with another teacup.

“Oh, are we going to use a cup this time?”

“It’s easier for me to measure it,” Sherlock explained. He gave his wrist a gnaw that made John wince, then eyed the blood carefully as it dripped into the cup. After a moment he turned his wrist over and pushed the cup at John. “Hurry up, while it’s fresh.”

As soon as the smell hit him John gagged slightly. He wasn’t squeamish about blood normally of course, but then again he wasn’t normally drinking it. “Ugh, I don’t think I can—“

“John, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock admonished. “Just drink it.”

He tried to, managing to choke some down while holding his nose. He could still taste it though, and ended up with his hand clapped over his mouth, silently praying he wouldn’t vomit all over his couch.

Sherlock was not exactly sympathetic. “John, this is extremely insulting,” he declared.

“Sorry,” John coughed.

“That’s blood I really couldn’t spare, you know,” he went on reproachfully.

“Maybe we could mix it with something?” John suggested hopefully.

“Anything hot ruins it,” Sherlock snapped, when John glanced at his other teacup. “I suppose you want it in alcohol. Have you _got_ any alcohol? I didn’t see any last night.” John imagined him going through all his cabinets and sighed. “Anyway the amount _you’ll_ be drinking, you can’t afford to always dilute it in alcohol, even beer. That’s not really very good for your body, actually.” John was trying to picture vampire blood and beer together and nearly gagged again. “Oh, lovely, it’s starting to congeal. I won’t let you get out of drinking it just because of that.”

John swore, in a helpless way, at the situations he found himself in. Granted, nobody was dying (yet), and he wasn’t pulling his younger sister out of some disturbing club he couldn’t possibly explain to their parents. So there was that. On the other hand, angering his new vampire pal was probably not very conducive to health and long life.

“Um, there might be some apple juice in the ice box,” he suggested faintly, swirling the cup to keep the liquid from settling. “Maybe that would taste alright.” Who was he kidding? It would taste like apple juice and blood.

Sherlock got up with a scoff. “Fine. Apple juice. Is that what they call hard cider these days? The blood won’t work as well if it’s trying to undo all the alcohol damage.”

“It’s non-alcoholic,” John informed him over his shoulder.

“What?”

“I said, it’s non-alcoholic,” he repeated, more loudly.

Sherlock zipped over, apple juice in hand, face just inches from John’s. “I _heard_ what you _said_ ,” he pointed out coolly. “I have sensitive hearing. As I’ve told you. I wish you to expand on your reply.”

“What? That apple juice is non-alcoholic?” John said once again, innocently.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, gritting his teeth slightly.

John tried not to smirk as he poured some of the juice into his cup, watching it mix with the blood. He might as well try to get _some_ amusement out of this. But only a little, Sherlock didn’t look like he was ready for much humor yet. “Well, it’s not fermented, you see,” he explained, then steeled himself and took a swig. “You know, that’s not bad,” he noted with some surprise.

“Really?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

John shuddered a little as the aftertaste hit him. “Well, ‘not bad’ is just… not bad,” he rephrased dubiously. He knocked the rest back before he could change his mind. “It’s just juice pressed from apples, sterilized so it won’t go bad,” he added.

Sherlock sniffed the juice thoughtfully. “People drink fruit juice now? Well, that makes it easier,” he decided. “Anyway, we’ll start you on that amount every day. When you first get up is really the best.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock took the dishes from him. “Next, I rather suggest a bath,” he advised, his attempt at discretion making John all the more uncomfortable. “Granted, human body odor has decreased markedly since I last remember, but compared to the other people I’ve been smelling today I’d say you’re a bit overdue for washing up.”

“Yeah, thanks,” John replied, standing and heading for the bathroom. “Often we _shower_ now, by the way. Stand in the tub, water pours down over us, washes down into the drain,” he described at Sherlock’s blank look.

“Mmm, I don’t understand,” he confessed, frowning. “Can you demonstrate?”

“No,” John told him firmly. “Imagine… standing under a waterfall. Or in the pouring rain.” He had the unsettling feeling Sherlock _was_ imagining it, with him, and he shut the bathroom door quickly. He realized with a sigh this was really the first time all day he’d been alone, in private, and he sat down on the lid of the toilet seat, trying to pull all his thoughts together.

“John!” Sherlock called through the door, and he jumped. “When you’re done, we’ll discuss real estate plans. If you’re not too fatigued. And I need more books!” John let out a long sigh and didn’t care if Sherlock heard.


End file.
